


404 (Redemption Not Found)

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Barebacking, Bottom Dean, Dubious Consent, M/M, Not A Happy Ending, Soulless Sam, What the fuck even is this, don't read it if you're not into dubcon that verges on self-hating non, like Soulless would ever bottom anyway, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 06:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15042803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: Soulless Sam has a mind to take what he wants, and Dean is too... well, Dean, to stop him.





	404 (Redemption Not Found)

**Author's Note:**

> So here’s the thing: I wrote and posted this while drinking. Generally a bad idea, I know.

“Sammy… You know the only reason I’d deny you something you really want is for your own good.”

Stuck in a dank motel room with only one working lamp and carpet that smells like piss covered up with Febreze, Dean’s trying to hold his own. But he’s losing the battle.

“My own good? You think you know what’s good for me?” Sam chuckles, dry and devoid of mirth. His face is rendered almost skeletal by the harsh lighting. “You’ve always thought so, huh.”

“Look,” Dean says. He’s backed into a corner, but that doesn’t mean he can’t talk. In fact, sometimes, it’s all he has. A fallback, like the heroes of the movies he grew up watching. Even if he’s never felt like a hero. Not even close.

His brother, soulless and too sexy for his own good, advances on him like a villain too dark for daytime TV.

“You’ll regret this. When we get your soul back—”

“You’re never going to,” Sam says. Purrs, more like. The look in his hazel eyes is dangerous. Foreign. “I’ll make sure of that, and you know it. You can’t re-pussify me. I won’t let you.”

“Re-pu—” Dean sputters. “Sam. Please.”

Sam’s eyes flash. His pupils dilate. “Say that again.”

He’s on top of Dean then, shoving him back against the wall with hands and hips and obvious purpose. His cock digs into Dean’s thigh and his face is mere inches away.

“Please,” Dean whispers, hardwired to respond, every hair on his body standing on end. There’s barely any sound to the word. He’s not even sure what emotions he’s feeling. Too many at once.

Sam smirks.

“That’s more like it.”

He adheres to Dean’s neck, biting, not quite hard enough to leave a mark but _goddamn._ Dean can’t help whimpering. Sam lets out a gust of hot air when he hears that, hips stuttering forward, jerking his cock against Dean’s thigh.

“Sammy,” Dean whines. Can’t help it. Even if he never wanted to call this Sam by that name.

He’s torn into pieces over this. Sure, he’s had the odd wet dream or five—he’s heard Sam jerk off before, in the middle of the night, and gotten hard—he’s heard Sam almost say his name during sex, and the bewilderment that followed sure felt like arousal.

But this… this isn’t his Sammy. Try as he might to deny it, to imagine how it could be, should be different....

This Sam is rough. This Sam claims him, sucking fierce red spots into his neck, one hand jamming down into his waistband, oblivious to what it must be doing to his wrist. This Sam grabs at Dean’s cock through his boxer briefs, not even bothering with the open seam at first—he jacks Dean through the coarse material so hard and fast it stings like sewing up a gash in Dean’s leg.

In his heart.

Dean tries to turn his face away, but Sam won’t let him. Using his body to keep Dean pinned, Sam grabs his chin with his free hand and forces Dean to face him. Forces him to see the wild empty look in those eyes he’s loved for all these years—for the humanity in them. There’s none of that now. It’s a special kind of grief Dean’s feeling, tinged with heat. With regret, for what he’s about to let happen.

He could slip the knife in the lining of his jacket between Sam’s ribs right now. But he won’t.

He lets Sam kiss him gracelessly instead.

“God, Dean,” Sam smears across his mouth, teeth rendering his bottom lip to so much ground meat. Copper swims in their midst. He rips open Dean’s jeans with a lack of effort that sings down Dean’s nerves straight to his cock.

“You make me so hot.”

Dean can’t speak. What would he even say to this? In the face of this waking nightmare? He’s not even sure how to classify it, somewhere between dream and horror, something like a fantasy turned foul. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that Sam is undressing him with all the finesse of a slasher flick, and he hasn’t even tried to move away from the wall.

He lets Sam rip his clothes to shreds—except for the jacket, which Sam tosses almost reverently on to the stupid ubiquitous motel chair. He lets Sam, still fully dressed, manhandle him to the bed. Toss him on it with far less care. Dean lands and his teeth clack together, and then Sam is on him, all sinuous form and pure, unadulterated sin. He’s everything Dean ever wanted and yet none of it, all at the same time.

Sam kisses him again. He tastes like blood, but like home too, and it’s such a cruel parody that tears spring to Dean’s eyes.

His not-brother notices. “Aw, are we getting emotional?” he teases.

Dean just glares. To turn away now would be to sacrifice the last scrap of dignity he has.

But Sam knows him that well, too well, and laughs.

“I’ll make sure you feel it, Dean.”

His name sounds wrong when it’s laden with nothing at all.

Rearing up, Sam hikes up Dean’s legs, spreads them wide like a pair of pliers ready to be used. He fishes a little packet out of his pocket—Dean’s relief is like a splash of water on the face of someone being tortured—and tears it open with his teeth.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Sloppily coating his fingers with it, drizzling the rest in a cold rush on Dean’s clenching entrance, Sam then strokes at the little hole, teases it with one merciless fingertip. Dean would look up at the ceiling, but it feels like a concession. He watches Sam’s face instead.

There, concentration wars with heat. He’s really enjoying this, Sam is—soulless or no, he wants his brother. That should give Dean some kind of sick satisfaction, but in fact it just makes him feel hollowed out. Bereaved. Mourning the loss of the brother he’s still determined to get back. Some way. Somehow.

He knows he can.

But for now, Sam has him pinned with one hand on an outspread thigh and a fingertip sliding none-too-gently into his ass.

Dean moans. He can’t help it. He’s had something or another up there before, but never Sam’s finger, long and knobbly from being broken too many times by various monsters on various hunts he joined Dean on when he had a soul. Sam slides it in to the hilt.

Then he pulls it back out none too slowly.

Yelping, Dean flinches away, but Sam just clenches his hold even tighter on the meat of Dean’s thigh and jams that finger back in. Pulls it back out, and adds another. It’s too soon, but Dean’s nerves are still singing. Still whining at the fact that it’s _Sam_ , Sam is touching him; even Sam without a soul is better than no Sam at all to Dean’s fucked-up libido.

The prep is merciless. By the time Sam is undoing his fly, tears have pooled in and fled Dean’s eyes to streak his temples. His dick is standing straight up and he’s ashamed, dissociating, and ready.

He’s never been prepped so fast in his life. As Sam unsheathes his monster cock, the one Dean’s only ever caught glimpses of and is ashamed to remember fantasizing about, Dean isn’t sure he can take it. Isn’t sure he cares, either. He has no self-respect and he knows it. He can think of no concrete reason to deny this or any other Sam anything that Sam can take from him.

He doesn’t close his eyes, but holds Sam’s empty, gimlet hazel ones the entire time Sam leans over, presses their foreheads together, lines himself up, and slams in.

“ _Sam!_ ” Dean slams his head back and screams.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Sam grunts, “give it to me,” and he immediately begins to move.

Oh, but it hurts. Sam is huge, and Dean is barely prepared. But he figures he deserves this. Needs it, even. He needs everything Sam will give him, was born for it, knew somehow in his bones from day one that Sam would be the one to ruin him—never mind how. Never mind which one.

He arches up into it. Sam is there, clothed chest pressing him back down atop the cheap nylon comforter. Dean wriggles, writhes as Sam sets a steady, punishing rhythm, driving him into the mattress springs. Slam, slam, slam go his brother’s hips, driven by nothing but biology and crude, vindictive desire.

Dean deserves it.

His ass clamps down on something too big and powerful. He tries to relax but can’t—even if he wasn’t strung out on nerves and the wrongness of it, he’s pretty sure he’s never had a partner this big.

Sam is owning him, no two ways. Pounding in deep like his life depends on it; and maybe it does, maybe all he’s got left is killing shit and owning Dean’s ass. He’s bent over so far Dean can’t even see his face. All he’s got is the rasp of air in and out of Sam’s lungs and the sick squelch down below.

Outside, traffic pours past the motel in an endless stream of mundane ignorance. Headlights slide past sometimes, someone driving up and checking in. Someone with no idea Dean is being flayed alive by his soulless brother and his own self-loathing. Someone who probably ought to call a therapist.

It’d sound like a dead line from this end. Aside from punched-out little grunts, Dean isn’t making a sound.

Then Sam changes his angle, and the game.

Suddenly Dean is seeing nothing but sunspots, pleasure flaring through his limbs to the end of his cock, to the ends of his _hair_ as Sam pounds on his prostate like it’s the buzzer in final Jeopardy. Dean begins to moan against his will, fingers clutching the comforter—no comfort there, even if he was trying to sleep. They must order these things from a cheap bargain warehouse. It’s beginning to burn his back where he’s being punched up to the headboard, but he is steadily finding that uncaring place between unreality and mounting orgasm.

He’s going to come whether he likes it or not; and oh, he’ll like it, but he’ll also hold it in his chest as it rots and stroke it like a pet when in reality, it’s an oozing wound that refuses to scar. He knows. He’s got a few of those. And this, Sam’s muscles bunching over top of him, something Dean would love to hold but can’t, Sam’s cock piercing him through in the best and worst ways. This is one of those.

“Dean,” Sam pants, ragged and alien, nothing Dean’s ever heard before wrapped up in an erstwhile comforting burr.

He doesn’t say anything.

“ _Dean,_ ” Sam rasps, slamming in even harder each subsequent time like he can force tone and form from Dean’s lungs.

“What.”

Dean doesn’t recognize his own voice. Doesn’t even really register that he said anything at all. But atop him, Sam shudders.

“I love you,” he says—whispers, more like—and it’s empty and wrong and it’s how Sam comes, shaking it all out, heat flooding Dean’s insides.

In all the years they’ve been together, deaths they’ve died, things they’ve done and had done to them, this is what murders him.

Not Sam’s lifeless corpse sagging in his arms. Not the hellhound ripping him to shreds, not the years on the rack or the memories of picking up the dripping razor and joining in down south.

No. This.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Dean whispers. Closes his eyes. And comes all over Sam’s chest.

“Ah—” Sam says. It becomes a laugh, shaking him as he drapes himself over Dean, squishing the mess between them, all in his clothes. His cock is still hard, and for one horrible lengthy moment, Dean thinks he’s about to start back up again.

Dean’s honestly not sure what he’d do if that happened.

Thankfully, the shell of his brother seems to have had enough.

He pulls out with little thought to the tearing of Dean’s insides, lube long since worn tacky and useless, muscles still fluttering with wrenched-free release. The noise that leaves Dean is something he’s heard dying animals make. Some objective part of him, aside from even sanity, thinks it’s apropos.

Sam leaves him there, on the bed, covered in jizz. Possibly bleeding. Why would this version care? _At least he didn’t spit on me,_ Dean says as he drifts, dissociation seizing him like opium without the high.

Pausing at the door, Sam glances back. There’s nothing on his face. Nothing for Dean to latch on to, no scrap of hope or redemption.

“You’re pretty when you cry,” he says. Then he’s gone.

The door shuffs closed behind him, and Dean is left to wonder what the fuck he was thinking when he didn’t reach for his blade.

Despite the body being Sam, that was no Sammy at all.

Despite wanting, and liking, and never objecting… Dean rolls on his side, curls up, and cries.


End file.
